Don't Cry
by Ayra Sei Ethari
Summary: Don't cry. It's the message that's been hammered into me my whole life. Don't cry. And I never have cried, not even a single teardrop. But now – now the only person who ever told me that because he cared is dead. I'm crying because Ian Rider is dead.


**_Don't Cry_**

_Summary:_ Don't cry. It's the message that's been hammered into me my whole life. Don't cry. And I never have cried, not even a single teardrop. But now – now the only person who ever told me because he cared is dead. I'm crying because Ian Rider is dead.

_Rating:_ T (for some suggestive scenes later)

_Genre:_ angst (emotional & physical) ; friendship ; romance

_Canon Character(s):_ Ian Rider (I also mention Alex, Jack, Alan Blunt, and Mrs. Jones)

_OC Character(s):_ the OC . . . who I did not name (she's another MI6 agent)

_Set During:_ before Stormbreaker

_Note:_ I know that this is a little disconcerting to be in first person as the books were in third, but I couldn't think of a name for the OC and I couldn't picture the story in anything but first person.

I am also assuming that Ian Rider is about, like, 35-36 years old when he dies in Stormbreaker, so pardon me if the math for the years doesn't add up according to canon, but if anyone knows his true age, please tell me!

* * *

**27 Years Before ****Stormbreaker**

_Don't cry._

I was nine years old when I first was told the message that would stick with me for the rest of my life.

My parents had never gotten along. Ever. I mean, sure, maybe they'd "loved" each other when they had first met and been dating – but as far back as I could remember (and they hadn't had me that long into their marriage either) it was just fighting, fighting, fighting. My mom yelled; my dad yelled back. My dad hit; my mom hit back. My mom shoved; my dad pushed.

Finally, when I was six years old, my mom walked out for the final time.

At first, I didn't realize it. My dad didn't either.

But as the days, and then weeks, and then months passed without any glimpse of her or her car or anything related to her, it slowly began to sank into my mind.

For me – I just shut my mouth and tried to make do as best I could. I didn't have a mom, but that didn't mean I could just stop living and have a temper tantrum. Life wasn't fair; my mom had taught me that herself.

It wasn't easy.

I was too young to know everything. I just didn't. I struggled with school, with home, with life.

And she wasn't there for me.

My dad wasn't either.

He sank into a deep depression. Much as he'd fought with my mom, he'd needed her – perhaps even loved her, deep deep down. The alcohol started. Then the smoking. Then the drugs.

And then he was no longer the dad I remembered.

Six months later, the beatings started.

At first, it was just a mild smack here or there if I forgot to, say, lay out the food for him or run the errand fast enough. Minor stuff.

But soon, it turned into a hailstorm of barrages that left me battered and bruised and struggling to conceal everything from the outside world of teachers and classmates.

Even from that age, I understood the need for secrecy.

I threw myself into my studies. If there was an extra class, a tutoring class, an advanced placement class – I signed up for it. If I had to stay up late, squeeze in homework whenever I could, devote all my attention to my studies and practiced – I did it. Anything to escape the horror my world had become at home.

But the school wasn't stupid.

And my dad's control was slowly going down the drain.

Finally, he snapped.

I didn't fight back. I didn't shout back. But most importantly, I did not cry. If there was one thing my father _hated_, it was crying. Over and over as his fists and feet pummeled me, he screamed _Don't cry_. And I listened.

I woke up in the hospital two weeks later.

Child protective services placed me in a foster home when I had recovered, because my mom, apparently, had died in a car accident shortly after she left us and my dad obviously wasn't able to be trusted. And I could say that I was reasonably happy with them – they were nice, and understanding, and never raised a hand against me, and they supported me.

But despite the fact that they grew to love – and then adopt – me, there was always one mystery about me that they always asked: _Why don't you cry?_

My father's voice would ring in my ears then.

_Don't cry!_

And I always listened.

* * *

**7 Years Before ****Stormbreaker**

Years passed. Twenty years, in fact. I was no longer a child. Childhood had left me that fateful day when I was eight years old, and I could never regain that innocence. Nor would I ever forget that lesson that my father beat into me.

Perhaps it served me well.

I was barely out of college when the Royal and General Bank contacted me.

Or, as I found out, better known as MI6.

I was astounded, but the director, Alan Blunt, was firm and unyielding. He meant business and he wasn't going to back down. My fluency in Russian and Chinese alongside English made me a prime target for a MI6 agent, he told me, even though I would need training in self-defense, weaponry, and some other additional stuff. But for the first few years, I would just be really an information gatherer, so it wouldn't matter.

I couldn't see any reason not to. So I agreed, and I became one of the "financial advisors" for the Royal and General Bank.

My first handful of missions, mainly where I posed as an interpreter or as an ignorant party on the table to see what slips the other people would make and then pass the information on to MI6, went easily and smoothly. No one caught on. I was good at acting the part of the naive, quiet little advisor.

The only problem?

Well, since I was so good and since no one really showed any interest, MI6 was kind of . . . well, slacking on my security.

That was why, on my fourth mission, two days in I woke up with a gun in my face.

They had tapped the line, and traced the signal. It didn't help that I'd been speaking flawless English instead of the stammering, halting, uncertain English I had been displaying for the past days, as I'd pretended to be fluent in Russian and bad in English.

My self-defense wasn't good enough for me to get out of the situation right there – not if I wanted to be _alive_ when I got out, anyways. And I had no way of contacting MI6 until they noticed I was suspiciously absent.

So I got myself tied up, gagged and blindfolded, and then dragged down to the dungeons.

I spent the next . . . I never found exactly how long, but I guessed it was two, three, maybe even four weeks down there, subjected to all sorts of torture to try and make me spill the beans. Thankfully, I didn't know too much about MI6, but I still tried to keep my mouth shut anyways. They got screams, not answers; defiant arguments instead of begging pleas; harsh refusals over crying floods.

I didn't give them what they wanted.

Although . . . for some reason, they were adverse to me crying.

They upped the ante continuously.

I knew their method. There's only so long before even the best agent just . . . snaps. And I was far from the best.

But the one thing they always said at me as they pinned, strapped, or held me down was: _Don't cry_. _Give us answers, and then you can cry all you want as we ship your dismembered body back to those crybaby agents, okay?_

I was half-insane, half-delirious when finally MI6 managed to track down wherever I'd been transported to and sent an agent to spring me. But apparently it wasn't that easy, because the first agent died and they had to send a second one. I didn't know though, so I was no help.

How he got in or how he found me I never found out, but the memory of the way his blue eyes burned and his face chilled when he saw me was unforgettable.

He worked in silence to break my bonds, and then shrugged out of his coat and gave it to me.

"I'm assuming you're the girl MI6 sent; that, or you're a prisoner of war or ransom hostage," was the first thing he said. "Care to inform as to which it is?"

I managed to croak out Blunt's name, and MI6, but his frown only deepened. Something disturbed him. Something about me. And I couldn't figure out what – but maybe that was because I was dehydrated, starving, bleeding, and weak. I didn't like that he had referred to me as just a girl – but then again, I had been the one who'd gotten caught, so maybe in his eyes I was.

Finally he sighed and helped me stand. "Come on. I can't spring you if we're just going to sit here."

As we slipped out of the compound, I risked a question through my parched mouth: "Who are you, exactly?"

He gave me a sideways glance. "Why do you need to know?"

"I – "

His eyes widened, and he suddenly jumped sideways, slamming into me and sending me toppling to the ground. I managed to remember to roll, but the fall still hurt like anything, and I was so terribly confused. . .

But then I looked up and saw him exchanging blows with a guard, fighting for control of a gun.

I blinked.

And by the end of my blink, somehow he had managed to simultaneously deliver a roundhouse kick to force the gun to the ground _and_ deliver three lightning blows to the guard's chest and temple, driving him to the ground as well. He scooped up the gun and cracked it against the guy's head for good measure afterwards, still scowling, and almost seemed to think about actually firing a round into the guy's chest as well. And something told me he was an expert marksman – unlike me.

Then he seemed to remember me, and instead slipped the gun into his belt.

When we were safely away from the compound, he drove me to the airport where MI6 had a plane waiting, and we were in the air within 20 minutes, tops.

For my part, I curled up into my chair and stared out the window. I had completely bungled this entire mission now. And he – whoever he was – and gotten in and out without a scratch, as far as I could tell.

"Hey."

I looked up just in time to see him sit down and offer me a bottle of water, which I accepted gratefully.

"Are you okay?"

I took a few deep breaths of air to make certain I could speak before I did. "Yes. I think."

His blue eyes didn't change, but I sensed concern – which for some reason surprised me. He didn't seem like the type of have that kind of concern for anyone but a select few he had let become close to him.

"Let me take care of that," he said suddenly.

I stared as he suddenly was opening a first-aid kit beside him and then he was gently pushing up the sleeves and starting to clean the wound. He worked quickly and neatly, as though he was used to dealing with it. In fact, he seemed . . . _too_ familiar with it. Which confused me. A lot.

"All set," he finished, pulling back. "It should be fine in a few days, although I can't say the same for the rest of you."

I shook my head.

"What?"

"I can't figure you out."

"I generally intend not to be figured out," he said calmly, almost matter-of-factly, as though we were discussing the weather and not him. "That's one reason I'm so useful to MI6."

I sighed. I wasn't in the mood for games. I had just been held prisoner for . . . well, however long it had been, for heavens' sake. "You barely got so much as a scratch back there," I said, leaning forward. "So why are you so familiar with first aid?"

He shrugged. "Whether you need it or not, it's best to know just in case," he said noncommittally.

"I'm not a good agent," I admitted. "But I know when someone's evading the truth; you're good, but not that good." I hesitated. "Who's the child?"

His blue eyes darkened, sliding into the icy chilliness of before. "What is it to you?"

I felt like his gaze was holding me tighter than any of the straps they had used, and much better at squeezing out the truth. He was good, I had to admit. Even so, I barely managed to whisper out the answer.

"If you want to be so hard to figure out, why do you have such an obvious weakness?"

His eyes cooled about thirty more degrees. "What is it to you?" he repeated, his voice dangerous.

"Well, you never answered any of my other questions."

He sighed. "I am guessing you have no family of your own then," he said, easing back into the chair.

"All dead."

His eyes flickered. "Mine too. Except one."

"That's the child?"

He didn't answer, but something in his eyes told me that he wouldn't give anymore than what he already had. Instead, he stood and said calmly, "Figure it out for yourself, if you like puzzles so much."

"Wait."

He hesitated warily. "What?"

"What's your name?"

He snapped the kit shut and put his hands in his pockets, the flawless image of the cool, collected, hot, and deceivingly dangerous spy.

"Ian Rider."

* * *

**3 Weeks Before ****Stormbreaker**

In the seven years that passed after that first meeting, I got a little better at being a spy. I moved up in the ranks, getting better at self-defense and everything else concerning spy matters. I was especially proud that I was getting better at getting myself out of tight spots – or just not getting into them in the first place.

That didn't mean that Ian didn't have to rescue me from time to time, of course.

And as a result, we naturally grew closer.

We learned to work as a team, in perfect rhythm and tandem. He was excellent at the fighting part; I was better at the information part. But together, we somehow managed to not disrupt the mission and not kill each other.

It was a rough friendship, at best.

But it was workable.

That is, until I got a rather unwelcome revelation about it.

That was the day that we accidentally ran into each other in a restaurant on one of the rare times that neither of us were on assignment.

At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. But no – I would recognize that confident, collected stance and casually tousled fair brown hair anywhere. And, of course, the second he straightened and turned around and our eyes met, my heart froze and I knew it was him at the exact same moment he knew it was me.

Within three short strides, he was in front of me.

I managed a small smile. "Hi, Ian."

His eyes flickered. "What are you doing here?" He sounded nervous – very nervous.

I back stepped. "Is something wrong? Are you . . . in trouble or something?" I asked tentatively.

He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "No. I'm just . . . surprised."

It clicked suddenly, and I laughed, relaxing. "Ian, relax. I am not tailing you, or stalking you, or . . . well, whatever else Blunt may do to you. I just got out a debriefing and decided to have a bite to eat before they shipped me back off to who-knows-where."

He sighed. "Well, you're here, so . . . May I introduce you?"

I blinked, taking another step back, and peered around Ian. Eventually, I spotted them – a booth with a blonde-haired young woman and a teenager. They seemed to be deep in conversation, but I couldn't miss the way the teenager's eyes flickered briefly between Ian and me, as though he was debating whether to come over.

I suppressed a laugh. As if Ian would ever need saving, because if he did a teenager wouldn't be enough.

"Well?"

I looked at Ian. He appeared to have finally relaxed, and he even was holding a hand out to me.

"But, Ian . . . I don't even know who they are."

It was a lame excuse, and he knew it.

He grinned. "That would be the point of introduction," he said smoothly, taking my hand anyways and guiding my forward.

"Ian, I'm not dressed – "

"Neither am I. Or they, for that matter."

"Ian – "

He half-turned, a smirk on his face. "Who do you trust more, me or you?"

I glared at him boldly. "Neither right now."

Ian laughed.

Then we were at his booth, and he surreptitiously dropped my hand – or tried to. I didn't miss the way the teenager's eyes were narrowed at me . . . and where we had been holding hands seconds earlier.

"Jack, Alex, this is one of the financial advisors at Royal and General. And this is Jack and Alex," he said to me, indicating them with two gentle flicks of his hands.

The woman – Jack – stood. "It was a great meal, but Alex has to get home to finish his homework, Ian," she said firmly.

I was startled. She had a clear American accent.

"I'll see you at home, then."

Jack frowned, but she left silently. The boy – Alex – frowned too, but when Ian jerked his head with a gentle smile, he sighed, rolled his eyes in typical teenager fashion, and then strolled casually after Jack.

"The child," I said, spinning to Ian. "_That's_ the child you were so worried about?"

Ian was already seated in the booth. He laced his fingers together and shrugged. "Well, he was a lot younger when I told you about him," he said neutrally.

I slid into the seat across from him. "Black belt?" I asked.

He grinned. "You're getting better at this."

"Well, you are, and you raised him, so I decided the chances he was too were pretty high."

I glanced at the door and noticed the growing line with a slight tinge of alarm – and relief. I hadn't been this close to him, or had such a casual conversation with him, ever. And it was disconcerting. _Ian_ was disconcerting. I needed to get away from him – away from those piercing, clear blue eyes, and get back into working mode and screw my head on straight and start thinking straight again.

I started to rise. "It was nice meeting Alex and Jack, Ian, but – "

Ian caught my arm and prevented me from scurrying to safety. "Where are you going?" he asked. "I thought you wanted a bite to eat."

I shook my head.

His eyes flickered. "You're lying," he said coolly.

"And?"

Ian sighed. "What is bothering you? I can tell, so don't bother lying again. What is it? Maybe I can help you – "

"Start by switching the puppy dog eyes off, Ian."

Silence.

Oh dear. I really _had_ said that.

Whoops.

Ian blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. His eyes shifted, as if he was contemplating something rather difficult, and he tilted his head as though trying to see me from a different angle.

I shifted. "Um . . . whenever you're done studying me, could you . . . you know . . . let go?"

"Make me."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ian's grip tightened, and a strange light burned in his eyes. "So," he said softly. "Is that what's bothering you?"

"What is?"

He smiled slightly. "You think Jack's my girlfriend or something?"

"I – I – no – I mean," I stammered.

"She's not." He hesitated. "There's only one person I think I would want as a girlfriend. Or . . . maybe . . . more than a girlfriend. But it's not Jack."

I back stepped, and my back hit the wall. _Shoot._ I had mucked up the first lesson Ian had ever taught me: _Count the exits in case of an emergency; you never know what's going to happen_. And this clearly wasn't one. At the time when I desperately needed it.

By the time I realized that, Ian was right in front of me, blocking any other escape.

Well, there went the second lesson: _Never let the enemy corner you._

"Um, Ian?"

"Yes?"

"Will you, um, back off?"

His eyes flickered; even in the dark, I could see that. "Not yet."

He frowned suddenly, and raised a hand to run under my eyes – a gentle touch, far gentler than anything I'd ever seen from him.

"Are you crying?"

"No."

"Don't cry. I'm not going . . . I don't want to hurt you." He smiled. "Besides, I bet you could stop me even if I want to hurt you, with all the advances you've made."

"What do you want?" I whispered, suddenly very scared. I mean, Ian was always scary, even to his friends and allies – but this was a different type of scared. And I wasn't sure that I was exactly wanting to run away now either. . . Damn Ian and his reverse psychology skills.

Ian stopped and lowered his face until we were centimeters apart. I could practically taste his breath now.

"Whatever you want to give," he murmured.

"Ian – "

Too late. He was already kissing me.

There went the third lesson: _Never let them take the advantage from you; it determines who walks out alive and who does not._

Well . . . if I was going to die and burn in the deepest pits of damnation for this, I might as well do it properly.

So I buried my fingers in his hair and kissed him back.

. . .

When I woke the next morning, the first thing I realized was that I was alone.

That was not a good thing.

I sat up, opened my eyes, and looked around.

White sheets. Tan pillows. Comfy chairs spread across the room, neatly arranged and artisically decorated. Varnished nightstand with an alarm clock, phone, lamp, and other various items. Dresser with numerous drawers and an enormous mirror that showcased the entire suite. Closet that was half open, with a hastily discarded pile of clothes scattered in front of it.

"Ian?"

There was no answer.

I slipped out of the bed, put on the silky night robe, and padded barefoot into the other half of the suite, which we had ignored last night.

"Ian?" I called.

Then I caught sight of him.

He was leaning against the window frame, a cell phone in hand and a towel wrapped around his waist.

" – be on my way soon," he was saying. "Of course. As always."

Then he hung up.

"Good morning," he said calmly, turning around.

I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly shy. Ian was always so confident, so calm, so cool that he made me feel remarkable insecure. Especially since he looked ridiculously attractive half-naked with only a towel on and the sun shining in his fair hair.

Ian hesitated, and something in his face changed.

"I – " I began.

"Did you not want this?" he interrupted.

"What? No! I mean, no, it's not that," I amended quickly. "It's just . . . I was worried."

His shoulders seemed to relax, and he smiled, setting down the cell phone on the table and stepping forward to hug me gently.

"I'm sorry. But the call came and I didn't want to disturb you. . ."

I froze in his embrace. "A call?"

Ian nodded reluctantly.

"You're being called away."

He searched my eyes, but his own were unreadable. Then he rested his forehead against mine, hugging me even closer. "If I could get out of it, I would, but . . ."

"No. Don't." I tried to smile. "We both knew what we were getting into when we signed up."

Ian sighed. "I'm going to miss you."

"Where is it this time?"

"Cornwall. Recon mission. Supposedly a walk in the park," he told me.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against his chest, inhaling his scent and trying to memorize the moment, with his arms around me and the affection between us clear and young and untroubled.

Then I pulled back. "When do you leave?"

"In two hours."

I winced. "Then we need to get you packed and out of here. You'd better drop by your real house to pack an overnight bag and some supplies and . . . well . . . say good-bye and everything. Oh, and Blunt probably wants you to go to headquarters for a briefing or something – "

Ian covered my mouth. "Calm down," he murmured. "I'm not gone yet. We have two hours. . ."

I laughed. "No, Ian. _Go_."

He was fed, showered, dressed, and ready in a record ten minutes. I plopped on the bed to watch him go. I intended to sleep for a few more hours first . . . sleep away the pain of seeing him go, and probably not return for some time. Besides, I was still tired. We hadn't gotten much sleep last night in the first place.

"What, no kiss for good luck?" Ian teased, hand on the doorknob.

"You need one?"

"Please?"

His act was shameless, his lines flawless, and his expression to die for. I couldn't resist and he knew it.

"Ian, you are ridiculous," I told him. "Completely shameless."

Then I slid off the bed and kissed him, and his arms came up to hold me close, and keep the kiss going. . .

He broke the kiss and smiled down at me. "I'll call you the moment I get back," he promised.

Then he was gone.

* * *

**During the Funeral**

I remained seated, watching as MI6 agents slowly filed away, silent and morose. Ian Rider had been one of our best agents, supposedly having the luck of the devil in his blood like his brother. I had seen examples firsthand – he always seemed to somehow land himself in the worst possible muck and then escape, usually unscathed except for a few cuts and bruises here and there, and with the world-saving information to boot. There hadn't been anything he hadn't been able to do.

Except this time.

I couldn't understand. It had been one of the simplest missions possible – a recon mission to Cornwall. I didn't understand why he had died. Ian was always so careful, even though he knew he had lots of luck.

Careful enough that I knew he hadn't died because of a mere incident of forgetting his seatbelt.

I looked up when the sound of footsteps died. Almost everyone was gone. Like all MI6 agents, Ian had not had many friends, even within the agency itself.

There were only a few people still remaining – Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones, for one thing. And a teenage boy – Ian's nephew, Alex Rider – and a woman – Jack Starbright, the housekeeper Ian had mentioned. They were talking.

I wrinkled my nose.

Ian had told me that the boy, Alex, was talented – extremely so. But MI6 was dangerous. He hadn't wanted Alex involved.

I didn't either. He was just a 14-year-old, for heavens' sake.

But Blunt would want this mission completed, since Ian had died before bringing the most important information back. And Sayle wouldn't really be quick to suspect a 14-year-old boy anymore than he would suspect a middle-aged security guard. But Sayle was still ruthless; if he had had Ian killed – and I had no doubt that he had – and if he learned who Alex really was. . .

As I had never had any family of my own, I hadn't really been able to understand Ian's fierce protectiveness of the boy.

Now, I sort of could.

Sayle would rip Alex apart if he found out the connection.

I sighed. I couldn't get too worked up over this. I wasn't as famous as Ian; I couldn't force MI6 to just leave Alex alone or anything. Without Ian, Alex was pretty much on his own. And I knew Blunt would never realize how close Ian and I had been or assign me to Cornwall.

I stood quietly and walked closer to the grave.

_Ian._

The bile rose in my mouth. We had had such a short time together – but we could have been happy, could have hid this, could have even maybe someday left MI6 and gotten married like Ian's brother had.

_Oh, Ian._

Slowly, I let myself sink to my knees in front of the grave.

I could picture him so clearly, in my mind – his half-smirk that taunted the fact that he had secrets and was good at keeping them; his clear blue eyes, open and honest and perfectly good at deceiving people and daring me to question him; his fair brown hair whipping in the wind; his arms crossed over his toned chest, leaning against the car as though he hadn't a care in the world and was perfectly aware how ridiculously attractive he looked. . .

Only that vision was now slowly turning grey.

_Because you're dead, Ian, and that's one separation I can't break through or solve, no matter what._

Right now, I could hear Ian's voice, echoing so softly in my head, whispering, _Don't cry_ – but it was too late. Ian was dead. He was the only person who had ever told me that gently, because he was worried about me, because he _loved_ me – but he was dead.

Dead. Gone. Cold.

_Don't cry_, Ian's voice whispered, almost like a siren of a passing breezing.

For the first time since I had been a baby, I stopped listening.

_Ian, I love you._

I put my hands in my face and cried.

**_The End_**

* * *

AN: This is my first fic in this fandom, so tell me what you think! Please?


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